 | Poems [1820] |  |
APRIL STANZAS,
WRITTEN IN NOVEMBER, 1813.
Let the great and the wealthy with offerings of duty
For their station and fortune to Providence kneel;
And let her who exults in the trophies of beauty,
From her glory one hour for her gratitude steal.
For their station and fortune to Providence kneel;
And let her who exults in the trophies of beauty,
From her glory one hour for her gratitude steal.
I thank thee, my God, that the sanguine complexion
Still marks me as man, which once mark'd me as boy;
And my heart, yet unknown to despair and dejection,
With rapture bounds forth to anticipate joy.
Still marks me as man, which once mark'd me as boy;
And my heart, yet unknown to despair and dejection,
With rapture bounds forth to anticipate joy.
Such, alas! are the turns in this world of rotation,
From their mountains of treasure the rich often fall;
And the star, which late blazed o'er the helm of the nation,
Now lost in eclipse is lamented by all.
From their mountains of treasure the rich often fall;
And the star, which late blazed o'er the helm of the nation,
Now lost in eclipse is lamented by all.
While it still has been thine, my dark fortune, to dizen
To-morrow, when sable to-day was my doom:
Clouds ne'er hung so mirky upon my horizon,
But a sun beam'd beyond them to scatter the gloom.
To-morrow, when sable to-day was my doom:
Clouds ne'er hung so mirky upon my horizon,
But a sun beam'd beyond them to scatter the gloom.
Are you poor? you escape the vexations of riches;
In obscurity's valley no tempests assail:
You are affluent—what ignorance your charity teaches!
You cheer the lone cottage, you thin the full jail.
In obscurity's valley no tempests assail:
You are affluent—what ignorance your charity teaches!
You cheer the lone cottage, you thin the full jail.
O! then mine be the bosom still buoyant and sprightly,
If I err, 'tis an error which makes the heart glad:
Sure 'tis wiser 'mid woes to think less, and run lightly,
Than with fatal precision think much and run mad.
If I err, 'tis an error which makes the heart glad:
Sure 'tis wiser 'mid woes to think less, and run lightly,
Than with fatal precision think much and run mad.
Who, indeed, with his Maker would hardily quarrel,
Because with life's pleasure its pang he combines!
The cypress itself to the Christian's a laurel,
Which round his meek brow stern Adversity twines.
Because with life's pleasure its pang he combines!
The cypress itself to the Christian's a laurel,
Which round his meek brow stern Adversity twines.
He knows, while on earth he is destined to wander,
That labour precedes, and enhances repose;
That not always through meads 'tis the stream's to meander,
And that thorns aye invest the green stem of the rose.
That labour precedes, and enhances repose;
That not always through meads 'tis the stream's to meander,
And that thorns aye invest the green stem of the rose.
Yet the rose may be cropp'd, with a finger unwounded;
Yet the wild may be traversed, though bleak and forlorn:
And when on Toil's ear his late curfew has sounded,
At the eve he forgets the fatigue of the morn.
Yet the wild may be traversed, though bleak and forlorn:
And when on Toil's ear his late curfew has sounded,
At the eve he forgets the fatigue of the morn.
Oh! think then, beloved, 'tis thus with life's sorrow—
December's chill train flee the warm breath of May:
And while thou look'st on to the sun of To-morrow,
Be cheerful amidst—e'en the storm of To-day.
December's chill train flee the warm breath of May:
And while thou look'st on to the sun of To-morrow,
Be cheerful amidst—e'en the storm of To-day.
STANZAS, ADDRESSED TO GRANVILLE PENN, ESQ.
UPON HIS LINES TO CHILDE HAROLD.
And hast thou, Penn, with thine angelic note—
Only less sweet than his, Childe Harold lured
Back to his heaven? Right glad were he, I wot,
Of that celestial home to be assured,
Whate'er the ills his pilgrimage endured!
Oft has he quaff'd the cup of loose delight,
Long has he stray'd, to vulgar joys enured:
Thou to his lip, with truth's own nectar bright
Thy better chalice givest, the draught of life and light.
Only less sweet than his, Childe Harold lured
Back to his heaven? Right glad were he, I wot,
Of that celestial home to be assured,
Whate'er the ills his pilgrimage endured!
Oft has he quaff'd the cup of loose delight,
Long has he stray'd, to vulgar joys enured:
Thou to his lip, with truth's own nectar bright
Thy better chalice givest, the draught of life and light.
To bound his raptures to a world like this;
Poorly to ‘grovel in a sensual sty’;
To doat, ignobly duped, on dreams of bliss—
(A dream is all of bliss beneath the sky!)
To blaze the meteor of an hour, and die—
Was never meant for him: O bid him trace
In his own powers his immortality!
Are they of earth—that energy, that grace,
Those aspirations vast which reach the bounds of space?
Poorly to ‘grovel in a sensual sty’;
To doat, ignobly duped, on dreams of bliss—
(A dream is all of bliss beneath the sky!)
To blaze the meteor of an hour, and die—
Was never meant for him: O bid him trace
In his own powers his immortality!
Are they of earth—that energy, that grace,
Those aspirations vast which reach the bounds of space?
Pause, pause thee, Harold, ere it be too late;
Blest in thy guide, if thou his guidance own!
Before thee yawns, rash Boy, the gulf of fate:
Thou totter'st on the brink of worlds unknown,
Of bliss or bale eternal. Spurn the crown
Of transient bays, by vicious Folly twined:
Thine yet may be unperishing renown,
The Amaranth wreath to purity assign'd,
Which they, the Pure of Heart, and they alone shall find.
Blest in thy guide, if thou his guidance own!
Before thee yawns, rash Boy, the gulf of fate:
Thou totter'st on the brink of worlds unknown,
Of bliss or bale eternal. Spurn the crown
Of transient bays, by vicious Folly twined:
Thine yet may be unperishing renown,
The Amaranth wreath to purity assign'd,
Which they, the Pure of Heart, and they alone shall find.
And O his tutelary genius thou,
Still pour, blest Penn, thy soothing strain along:
As oil o'er troubled ocean, soft shall flow
O'er his calm'd soul the monitory song.
With Christian Survey teach his glance among
Ages announced by prophecy to rove—
To thee, of right, such glorious themes belong—
Point where thy Bioscope's sure fingers move,
And bear thy rescued charge to heaven's high courts above.
Still pour, blest Penn, thy soothing strain along:
As oil o'er troubled ocean, soft shall flow
O'er his calm'd soul the monitory song.
With Christian Survey teach his glance among
Ages announced by prophecy to rove—
To thee, of right, such glorious themes belong—
Point where thy Bioscope's sure fingers move,
And bear thy rescued charge to heaven's high courts above.
So shall thy brow, with brightest radiance bound,
Aye glitter in those blessed courts—afar
From each distressful sight, each deathful sound—
In lustre closed thy course of worldly war:
And thou—or Truth is false —a living star,
With him thy glowing satellite still near!
There shall no passions wake the' intestine jar;
But Love his robe of purest white shall wear,
And crown with endless peace heaven's ever-verdant year.
Aye glitter in those blessed courts—afar
From each distressful sight, each deathful sound—
In lustre closed thy course of worldly war:
And thou—or Truth is false —a living star,
With him thy glowing satellite still near!
There shall no passions wake the' intestine jar;
But Love his robe of purest white shall wear,
And crown with endless peace heaven's ever-verdant year.
| Poems [1820] | |